Harrod looked out the small porthole at the stars, and marveled at them: they were so sure in their places, so serene in their existence.
So unlike humans.
— 8 —
Now within two light years of their new home, Harrod slept through the loud rejoicing on the bridge of the Photrek Courser. In part, this might have been due to his social class as an Intendant: no one would have thought to include him in the celebration. However, the real reason he missed the celebration was that he was asleep: deeply, dreamlessly, cryogenically asleep.
Harrod hur-Mellis lay in a white sarcophagus, his body maintained at approximately two degrees centigrade. Intubated, catheterized, infused with various stabilizing agents, his bodily functions were either terminated or almost so. Even his sluggish blood was not his own, but a synthetic substance laced with glycerine compounds not unlike those which still flowed in the veins of Arctic fish on the world of his race’s origin. And he would sleep on until eighteen months before they were to arrive in the Senrefer system and take up orbit about the strange moon that had, just this day, been confirmed as their new home.
Senrefer Tertius Seven showed the orange spectrographic line that meant an abundance of free oxygen in the atmosphere. Closer analysis suggested a fair amount of water vapor and, although it was still too distant to make a definitive conjecture on surface temperature, it seemed likely that there would be at least shallow seas. Weather, tectonics, oceans, continents, arable soil, edible plants: none of these were discernible. But the odds were good that a colony could be established on this strange satellite, which was quite distant from the gas giant, and evidently, molten-cored and rotating, since it had a reasonable magnetic field of its own.
Before the spontaneous party on the bridge devolved into the randomized—and rather kinetic—matings that were the carefully timed privilege of the Evolved, initial course adjustments were plotted and entered. Low on deuterium, the Photrek Courser would now edge toward the dust and molecular volatiles of the outer traces of Senrefer’s planetary accretion disk. The Ark would counter-boost for several weeks, and then tumble over to gather more hydrogen with its ram scoop. Having to gather enough fuel to complete their own deceleration would extend the last leg of their journey, turning what had been an eighteen-month acceleration process into a staggered braking regimen that would extend over five years.
In that time, the vat-born helot settlers would be decanted and receive their rudimentary educations. The away-craft—almost never used during the long journey—would be checked and run through shake-down flights. And security precautions would be taken to ensure the compliance of the survivors of House Shaddock when they were awakened to help shuttle the rest of the Exodate down to their new home.
— 9 —
Upon rousing from cold sleep, Ackley sul-Shaddock’s eyes opened, but took a long time to clear and start focusing. So, knowing he had no time to waste, Harrod leaned over where the Raised Intendant could see him. “I’m sorry for what happened to your House,” Harrod said. “I didn’t know.”
Ackley’s eyes swam in the direction of Harrod’s voice, then found his face. “I know,” he rasped. And let his head fall back.
A moment later, the door opened and two big helots—one grasping either arm—dragged Harrod roughly from the cryocell chamber.
Harrod was surprised when the eight and ninth lash came in quick sequence—one-two. He managed to turn what might have been a sob into a gargling cough. And he waited.
Overlord Bikrut Mellis had been most inventive: although there were no whips aboard the Photrek Courser, he had improvised a braided length of wire coating. With the wires themselves stripped out, the plastic and latex sheathes were remarkably flexible. And felt very much like a hide whip to Harrod’s largely undiscriminating back.
The tenth lash landed with a savagery—and sharp crack—that dwarfed any of the other blows. Harrod bit his tongue—literally—and slumped in the cuffs which hung from the ceiling. Perhaps if the ship had not been under full-thrust deceleration, a whipping might have been impossible: gravity or its analog was pretty much a prerequisite. But on second thought, forced to innovate beyond the bounds of tradition, Bikrut might have arrived at something far more novel—and painful.
The Overlord’s voice was in his ear. “Why have you been punished, Intendant?”
Harrod tried to raise his head, but felt darkness close in and the cross-hatched weals on his back burn like a cooking grill.
“Answer. I command it.”
“I …I showed sympathy to a person of House Shaddock.”
“Excellent. You understand your transgression. And I know you understood your punishment. I presume you understand that the first caused the second. And that another transgression will result in a more extensive punishment.”
“Yes, my Overlord.”
Bikrut turned to the helots. “Remove his restraints.”
They complied: Harrod almost fell, but swaying, dropped to a knee and managed to steady himself.
“An appropriate position for you.”
Harrod looked up. Bikrut was staring down at him: the words had not been uttered in an unkind tone. They had simply been weighty, determined—like a pronouncement. Harrod watched Bikrut’s eyes, not knowing what might happen next.
To his great surprise, Bikrut shook his head and turned away. “Harrod, for that act of disloyalty, I would have sent any other Intendant out an airlock—you, too, if it were not for our need of your skills, and your otherwise …unimpeachable …service. But know this: you shall not be Raised up.”
Hardly a surprise. “My Overlord is just; my transgression warrants no less.”
Bikrut almost seemed to spit his frustration. “Idiot! It is not your transgression that has cost you your Raising. It is your mildness, your subservience.”
Harrod looked up, too stunned to remember that he must not look an Overlord directly in the eyes. “My—my subservience is at fault?”
“Of course it is, dolt! Tell me this: what is the privilege and fate of the Evolved?”
“To dominate.” Harrod repeated it like the rote catechism it was.
“Exactly. And so, consider welclass="underline" do you truly belong in that class? Never a stare of resentment. Never a protracted silence in which you might be nursing your own fancies of vengeance. Not even the slightest subversion of orders to put your own imprint upon an undertaking. No acts of pride, or anger, or passion, or impulse. And so, never whipped but once, when you were very young.”
“But…but…is this not the behavior the Evolved teach Intendants to follow? Have my actions failed to match your instruction in any way?”
“No—and that is the problem, Harrod. If we Raise up your gene-line, what does it promise for House Mellis? Brilliance? Yes, without doubt. A calm ability to see and solve problems? Without question. But what of the instinct to dominate, to lead, to impose your will upon others: to win?”
“I—I do not know what to say, my Overlord.”
“Of course you don’t. You are a lesser being. And that is why we cannot Raise you, Harrod.” The tone in Bikrut’s voice was a strange mix of annoyance, pity, and apology. Then he tossed his makeshift lash aside. “There is much to do. You are tasked to oversee Ackley’s readying of the away craft.”
“My Overlord, Ackley now has rank over me.”
“He does not. His Raising has been nullified. By me. He will do as you instruct. Or he will die.”
“Yes, my Overlord.”